Page 37 of Second Alarm
I sit on the bench for another minute.
Then I get up, and I don't let myself count anymore.
Chapter 7
Hanna
I'm at Peak Grounds at seven in the morning, on my day off, because I've decided — as a matter of adult decision-making — to walk into this coffee shop, order a coffee from the woman who knows my order, and stop treating it like a referendum on my life choices.
A decision I've been making since Monday.
Peak Grounds at seven a.m. is, it turns out, the following populations: three retirees in a booth complaining about the mayor, a woman in scrubs writing what appears to be a dissertation on her laptop, Nora the barista, and a man behind the counter I don't recognize who's apparently the owner. The little wooden sign says his name is Micah. He's early thirties, dark-rimmed glasses, a beard that looks less styled than inevitable, with the specific quiet of a man who hasn't said more than four words in a row since the Clinton administration.
"Morning," Micah says as I come in.
"Morning."
"Black?"
"Black." He pours without requiring any other conversation.
Nora looks up from a croissant tray. "Hey, Hanna."
"Hey, Nora. Cal in this morning?"
"Up at the station," Micah says, sliding the cup across. "Enjoy the coffee."
"Thanks."
I take the coffee, pick the booth by the window because it's the only open one, and sit down with my book — a paperback with a purple cover that Cal's bookshop friend recommended, which I haven't been able to read more than eleven pages all month because every time I sit down with it, my brain goes elsewhere. Today, at seven-oh-four on Wednesday morning, I'm going to finish chapter three with my coffee, and I'm going to have a nice time.
I read half a page.
The bell on the door rings.
I don't look up. I'm not a woman who looks up every time the bell rings, and I'm going to read my book.
A shadow stops next to the booth.
"Mind if I — "
"I do mind."
Ty sits down anyway. He sits across from me in the booth by the window, sets his own coffee and his own paperback on the table, opens the book, and reads it.
I stare at him. "What are you doing."
"Reading."
"You're sitting in my booth."
"All the other booths are full."
"Then sit at the counter."
"I don't like the counter."
"Ty."
